


Dead Man Blues

by owlpockets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlpockets/pseuds/owlpockets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU from the end of season five. The Apocalypse came and went, taking Sam away and leaving Castiel very much human. Dean honors his brother’s last request, but when Lisa kicks him out for good, he returns to Bobby’s where Cas is more confusing than ever, the past finally catches up with him, and there’s a zombie in the playground down the street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Art post by xsilverdreamsx.](http://xsilverdreamsx.livejournal.com/18758.html)
> 
> Full warnings: Violence, gore, sex, strong language, some questionable morals, and copious alcohol abuse.
> 
> For deancasbigbang on LJ. I originally intended this to be fully AU, but ended up incorporating elements from the 2014'verse and season six, intentionally and sometimes unintentionally as the story expanded. It's also a little bit inspired by my second favorite ever zombie movie, Fido, which I won't elaborate on because zomgspoilers. While I am very interested in the subject, I am no expert on Louisiana voodoo, so apologies in advance if I've committed any major faux pas.

He tried, he really did, but in the end the zombies won.

__

Dean was pretty sure there was some enormously funny cosmic joke unfolding throughout his life, but it was much too large to see the punch line. It was some ungodly hour of the morning and he was fully clothed, sprawled prone on a queen-size motel bed that smelled of cedar and tobacco. He thought the TV was on, but he couldn’t quite remember and couldn’t work up the energy to lift his head to look. The popcorn ceiling was all too unpleasantly nostalgic and if he squinted he could see little pictures—dogs, flowers, faces, cars, angels, demons. He thought maybe he should leave, since he wasn’t sleeping or doing much of anything, drifting in his own personal limbo, but the general lack of motivation was preventing him from getting up to find his keys. When Dean tried to list the things he hadn’t screwed up in the previous five years—hell, ten years—a whole lot of nothing came to mind. The very latest, of course, was his relationship to an amazing woman, but everything had fallen flat within six months. The following three shouldn’t have happened, but Dean had stubbornly clung to the fruitless hope that he could make it work somehow. Lisa had finally kicked him out for good with the clichéd ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line that lodged in his chest like an extra large fishhook, a constant reminder of yet another life failure. “Fuck this,” he said aloud to the empty room.

Pushing upright, Dean stared sightlessly at the news channel that was playing on the television screen for a moment, then flicked it off once his hand found the remote on the bed. He was even still wearing his shoes, he realized, which at the very least made it easier to get ready to leave. He stood and shuffled through the single duffel bag containing all he owned, dragged out a fistful of cash from underneath his clothes. The money he would use to pay for the crappy room was legitimate, for once, but that probably wouldn’t last too long once he reached Bobby’s. Though no, he wasn’t ready to consider the future longer than a couple of days in advance yet. First, he had to see if Bobby was even willing to take him in, or at least give him a place to crash for a little while. Truth be told, Dean missed the old codger fiercely; they hadn’t seen each other since he moved in with Lisa, though they had talked on the phone a few times, just to keep track of each other. The other inhabitant of the house he was more reluctant to meet again. Castiel he hadn’t seen or talked to since they parted ways nine months ago. He wasn’t sure if that had been a good decision or not, leaving behind his friend, now all too human, but the guilt over Sam was already killing him without having to watch Cas struggle through everyday life as well. Dean supposed on some level that made him a coward, despite Cas’s insistence that he honor his promise to Sam. If he chose not to acknowledge the contrary sadness in his friend’s eyes as he said it, well, that was further proof.

“Okay.” He sighed, and glanced around the room out of habit to be sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, despite having never bothered to unpack. Ten hours of driving still lay between him and Sioux Falls, after only making it two hours the previous night when he’d realized he wasn’t fit to drive. Coffee, lots of coffee, and maybe breakfast, would be good for him, provided his stomach stopped churning by the time he walked over to the attached diner. He dropped his bag in the trunk and ambled towards the smell of food, finding that he was a little hungry after all. The place was like any other low-end motel restaurant, pies in the case, plastic flowers, and sections of newspaper stacked at one end of the counter. Same old, same old, but it felt off now, like he was missing a limb or two. Dean took one of the stools at the counter and ordered coffee, eggs, and toast from the uninterested waitress. Merely staring at the faux granite pattern on the counter while he waited seemed creepy, so he dragged a section of the paper over to stare at instead. By the second page, his food had arrived, the waitress sliding it toward him apparently trying not to disturb his reading. Dean folded the paper down anyway and gave her a half smile. “Thanks. Eggs are more exciting than the news today.” He grabbed the salt and pepper.

“Then you didn’t get to the bottom of page two yet,” the waitress responded, tapping the page Dean had set down with one chipped red nail.

“Is that so?” From the slightly manic glint in the woman’s small eyes, he was relatively sure it wasn’t going to be something he wanted to see, especially while eating, but he glanced down anyway to humor her. “‘FBI searches for serial killer in Louisiana.’ Huh.”

The waitress leaned on her hands toward him, looking self-satisfied for having a story more exciting than breakfast eggs. Clearly she didn’t have much of a social outlet. “I heard this guy they’re looking for is a cannibal. They’ve been finding half eaten corpses all over the South. I heard one even had its brain removed.”

Definitely not a topic Dean was interested in before he’d even had a sip of coffee. “Sounds like a real monster, this guy.” And the culprit probably was actually a monster, Dean figured, but it wasn’t his problem, not his job anymore. Maybe he’d mention it to Bobby later. Pleased with the reaction she got, the waitress left to help another customer that had just arrived. Dean decided he’d prefer to be gone when she came back and started wolfing down his meal.

__

New Orleans, Louisiana

Close, he was so close. The young woman’s huffs and groans had almost sounded like human words. He watched her lurch across the dimly lit room, a bit of rotted skin pulled partly off the bottom of her foot dragged collecting dust and pieces of dried herbs from the floor as it trailed behind. Mesmerizing she was, perhaps beautiful, if she had been fresher, and so like his wife with her dark wavy hair and blue almond eyes. But this animated body wasn’t her, and he stopped pretending. She was strong, fighting him as he pushed her toward the door and out into the dark. Some of that inky hair came off in his hand, stayed wound around his fingers when he slammed the door shut quickly behind her. Most of them lingered for a half an hour or so, scratch-scratch-scratching at the wood, but they weren’t able to open it. He never had the heart to end them once he made them, though he was worried that might have to change now that bizarre attacks and ridiculous claims of a cannibalistic serial killer were appearing in the papers. He liked to think of himself as a giver of life; he would not take it away.

Close to succeeding, yes, but still something was missing. The reanimated bodies he turned loose clearly lacked a conscious if they were attacking other humans, and he was sure they were. He knew what it was that was absent, remembering from all those years ago in his childhood the nuns in their black habits teaching him about God and Jesus and the Devil and…the soul. Yes, that might be the key to success, if he could somehow bring back the soul. He chanced a smile, rubbing at the back of his sweating neck, sore from bending intently over his work all evening. There must be way, and he would find it if he had to hold a gun to the head of every witchdoctor in the world. Seeing her again was worth every effort.

The scratching stopped, presumably indicating his latest experiment had wandered off into the night. He would go out and clean up the fingernails in the morning.

__

For about ten seconds, Bobby looked as if he were going to punch Dean right in the face. He supposed it would be well-deserved, having not worked up the nerve to call ahead throughout the entirety of the previous two days. Bobby didn’t, of course, punch him and instead stood aside and patted his shoulder as he moved through the entryway. “What are you doin’ here, boy? You should have called first, we might not’ve been home.”

The ‘we’ caused a jump in his pulse, a fleeting panic over what exactly he was going to say to Cas when they stood face to face. “Yeah, well…here I am.” He swallowed, throat dry and uncooperative. “And…uhh…do you mind if I crash here for a while? Lisa kicked me out. For good this time.”

Bobby looked mildly surprised, but shrugged and nodded. “Sure, sure. You look like ass. Go sit and we’ll get your stuff later.” Instead of following, he moved into the kitchen, most likely to scrounge up some food and drink, Dean entering the study where the broken couch still rested under the window. Bobby’s looked more like home than Lisa’s house ever had. Bobby looked about the same as ever, though perhaps a little whiter along the hairline. Apocalypses had to take some toll, even on such stalwarts as Bobby Singer.

Amidst the perpetual mess of the big library table, Castiel was half sprawled, apparently asleep on his work. There was a nearly empty bottle of something cheap and a drained glass clasped loosely in his hand, which Dean didn’t like the look of, though he was probably the last person who should judge. He took a deep inhale in preparation for what he was about to attempt. If he could get a few words in before Cas tried to ineffectively smite him for never calling, maybe things could be okay. Or at least less weird. He laid a hand gently on Cas’s shoulder and nudged, drawing back as Cas startled awake. The bottle tipped and spilled across some of the papers, Cas shifting upright and taking a scrap with him, stuck to his cheek. His hair was wilder than usual, a bit overgrown now that he was required to cut it. Heartbreaking and ridiculous.

Cas squinted at him, ignoring the paper still clinging to his face. His voice was somewhat slurred, though from sleep or drink he was unsure. “Dean? What are you doing here?”

The whole mess of issues Dean wanted to jump right into flew out of his head before he had a chance to say them. Cas wasn’t angry, or at least he was too impaired to be angry. Simple explanations seemed more prudent for the time being, until he could figure where he stood with Cas. “Lisa kicked me out, for good. Bobby said I could stay here for a while.”

Cas stared through narrowed eyes and an unreadable expression. He opened his mouth to say something, but Bobby returned and interrupted. “Dean, here’s a bite to eat. Cold chicken and some beans, it’s all I had handy. Now, you two are either going to have to share or Dean, you can live on the couch. Work it out, I’ll go find some extra pillows.” He put the plate in Dean’s hands with a cold beer, too, and left them in silence.

Dean folded onto the couch to eat, turned towards the table. Cas blinked once and looked away, picking up the bottle and pouring what was left into the glass. It was obvious the moment they might have had a meaningful conversation had passed. Dean picked as his food, not especially hungry but willing to eat to humor his surrogate father. He suddenly felt as though he were intruding, like a bull in a china shop on a precariously balanced domestic arrangement where the slightest bump would cause utter catastrophe. “I’ll take the couch.”

__

Castiel disappeared during the daylight hours for the two days following Dean’s arrival, only returning late to sleep. Dean wasn’t sure where he went, and didn’t feel he had the right to ask Bobby about it yet. Mostly, he laid on the couch and stared or read a little bit from a stash of dusty novels tucked away on the bottom shelf of one of the bookcases. Bobby generally left him alone, unless ringing the dinner bell. The third night, Dean lay awake long after Cas came in and went to bed, face half pressed into the back of the couch. He didn’t want to sleep, though he was tired, knowing what he’d have to deal with if he closed his eyes for the night. He must have drifted off anyway, despite his better efforts, because he started awake again to a faint squeeeeakgrind. There was a pause punctuated by a few soft clacks, then the same alarming noise that had woken him up repeated. Dean had a pretty good idea of what it might be now that the initial shock was wearing off, but his heart was still racing as he rubbed the sleepiness from his face and stood. The sound continued on a lesser scale, and his theory was confirmed when he snuck across the hall and peeked into Castiel’s room. The horrible sound was louder there, and the former angel had twisted himself into a bizarre position in his sleep.

“Cas,” he said quietly, unsure of whether he was allowed to enter the room. “Hey, wake up.”

One final clack and Cas sighed. Dean could barely make out his arm coming up to rub over his face in the dark. “What is it, Dean?”

“Uhh…you were grinding your teeth. It woke me up.” Dean shifted his weight between feet, wondering if he should have said anything at all. From the tone of his voice, it seemed that Cas was unhappy about being woken up in the dead of night.

Cas sat up in bed, massaging his jaw with one hand. “I was doing what?” He seemed uncertain that such a thing was possible, and Dean figured he probably didn’t understand much about human sleep yet.

“Yeah, grinding your teeth in your sleep. Sam used to do that sometimes. I think he said it was caused by stress or something. Creepy as fuck sound, makes your skin crawl.” Dean stepped in and leaned against the wall. He didn’t continue, but the implication was there: Cas was not okay. That makes two of us, he thought, also wondering if it was possible Cas could still read his mind. He guessed no, since there was no immediate reaction to his private thoughts.

Cas made a non-committal sound and rested back against the wall his bed was pushed against. “I’m sorry for waking you. I had no idea I was doing that.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dean hesitated, but curiosity and concern win over. “Are you having dreams?”

“Yes, most nights. Except when I drink enough to black out.” Cas huffed a faint laugh. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Dean’s heart leapt into this throat, though it might have been too much to hope yet that Cas was going to forgive him for leaving that easily. He did what he was asked, perching on the edge of the bed by Cas’s legs. “You’re turning into me, you know.”

“Is that such a terrible thing?” Dean didn’t have an answer for him. Despite all his faults and failures, Cas still seemed to believe he could do no wrong. Well, he’d done a lot of wrong, and the blind adoration still made him extremely uncomfortable.

Before the conversation could go down a road he didn’t want to visit, he tried to steer it in a slightly safer direction. “You got a bottle in here?”

Cas fumbled with the nightstand and produced something of the appropriate shape, though Dean couldn’t see the contents. “I think it’s whiskey,” Cas said, handing it over.

Dean took a swig before passing it back, “Yep, it is.” He put his legs up on the bed and scooted back to lean against the wall next to Cas. “What do you dream about?”

“Usually I am looking for God for a long time and finding Lucifer instead.” Cas paused and seemed to consider his words. “And Sam, sometimes.”

Dean almost didn’t want to share, as if saying it out loud would make everything more real. But Cas was waiting in expectant silence, though Dean was pretty sure he already knew. They probably needed this, to reconnect somehow, even if it was just over whiskey and nightmares. “Yeah, me too. Uh, about Sam, falling into the cage. And…well, you know.”

“Alistair,” Cas finished for him matter-of-factly.

“Yeah. I don’t think those will ever go away.” Dean picked at the label on the bottle that he couldn’t really see. “But the ones about Sam are the worst,” he finished barely above a whisper.

“Dean…”

He cut Cas off before he could get any further into awkward territory, which he was exceedingly good at, almost better than Sam. “Look, I’m sorry I left and didn’t call for…nine months.” Dean winced inwardly, but barreled on with his blunt apology. “I was an asshole for doing that. So, are we cool?”

“Of course, Dean. I understand why you had to go, although I do wish things had turned out differently.” Cas was accepting his apology, but he sounded a little flat, and Dean knew things were not perfect. That was alright, at least it was a step in the right direction.

They drank in silence for several minutes, each getting drowsy from the drink and the late hour and a general lack of proper rest. “So…Bobby tells me you’ve been hunting?”

He could feel Cas shrug, their shoulders barely touching. “Yes. I am not very good at anything else.”

“I hear that.” Dean raised the bottle slightly and took a drink.

__

Dean woke up alone, confused, and a little hung-over. He was still in Cas’s bed, twisted sideways and half hanging off the edge, hand brushing through the clumps of dust on the floor as he moved upright. He groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face before spotting the empty bottle shoved up near the headboard. The last time Dean had woken up with a bottle in bed next to him a doctor might have defined him as a ‘highly functional alcoholic’. Maybe that label was still true. Yeah, and maybe it was time to take a hard look at his life, but Dean shoved that self-conscious impulse away with all the others. Coffee, he needed coffee.

The house was deserted, the usual inhabitants made scarce by something neither apparently thought important enough to leave a note about. Dean dumped a few spoons of coffee in the filter without bothering to measure, and slumped into a kitchen chair in yesterday’s clothes. Not that Bobby and Cas weren’t always pretty quiet, but the absolute silence was a relief on his battered brain. Last night was weird, and Dean started turning over the conversation in his mind while he waited for the coffee to brew. The parts that went unsaid were more critical than what they actually talked about. Obviously they both missed Sam, but what really gave him pause was that Cas was scared. He was scared of being human, scared of failing and loneliness and being redundant. And boy, did Dean know about all of that far too well. He couldn’t blame Cas for any of it, and the guilt that part of it was his fault started to gnaw at his gut.

Dean didn’t bother to get up when the coffee was done, instead leaning over his chair to pour into the large mug he’d already set out. The back door opened with a little more force than was strictly necessary as he was resettling at the table, and Bobby walked in, dropping a bag of equipment on the table. Cas followed a second after, moving to stand by the counter and pour some coffee for himself, back to both of them. He was wearing an old gray t-shirt that was slightly too big and new-ish looking jeans; Dean thought it creepy to see him in regular clothes. He turned his attention back to Bobby, confused that neither of them had given so much as a greeting so far. The old man looked tight-lipped and annoyed, eyeing Castiel’s back like he was about to sprout an extra arm back there. Since Dean started paying closer attention, Cas’s shoulders look tense as well.

“Hey, get your own coffee,” Dean grumped. “That pot’s mine.” The tight silence was making him uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” Cas replied flatly, but sipped his mug anyway.

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s in the bag? You two been out hunting this early?”

“Yep.” Bobby answered briefly, picking up the bag again and moving to leave the room.

“Well, what was it?” Dean decided to ask, frowning, when it was clear Bobby wasn’t going to be more forthcoming on his own.

“Oh, you know…” A grunt drifted over from the closet where Bobby was enthusiastically shoving the equipment bag onto an upper shelf.

Now Dean was sure something weird was going on. The old man wasn’t smiling and he was pulling the absent-minded act a little too conveniently. “Dude, I’ve only been out of the game for nine months, I ain’t gone that soft.” He could see Cas rolling his eyes over the top of the mug in his periphery. What the fuck?

Bobby sighed and stopped pretending to clean up. “A zombie. We just killed a zombie in the playground down the street.”

Cas finally piped up, adding helpfully, “The second one this week.”

“I didn’t want to bring it up since you’re…you know…retired and all…” Bobby cleared his throat and Dean stared at him. “But we think there’s something going on. Something big, maybe. He wanted to ask you about it, but I wasn’t sure it was a good idea right now.”

When Dean looked over at Cas, he did his best to look carefully blank, which didn’t seem to work as well for him without the angel mojo. He frowned and said “Oh,” waiting for Cas to crack, but nothing happened.

“Anyway, I have some stuff to take care of in town.” Bobby was uneasy, but whether it was about zombies or Dean was unclear. “I’ll be back in a while.”

“Get me some pie,” Dean called after him as the old man reached the door, and received a dismissive wave in return. He thought for a second, and added, “Cherry.”

Cas was hiding a smile when Dean turned back to him, the twitchy kind that meant he was unsure if it was the appropriate response. “And what are you laughing at?”

“Nothing.” Cas sipped his coffee, eyes locked onto the back of Dean’s chair.

__

Two days later, Castiel accosted him in the hallway outside the bathroom, where Dean had just gotten out of the shower and was still wrapped in a towel. “I have never seen a zombie film. Do you think it would be…educational?”

“Uhh…sure thing, Cas.” Dean stared at him like he’d grown a second head until he moved aside. Whatever that was supposed to mean, he was pretty sure it was not a pick-up line. Pretty sure. He had never been a hundred percent certain where Cas stood on the spectrum, especially after that one fumbling, miles-from-sober night in the back of the Impala when they both thought they were going to die and Sam was still on hiatus. Dean never was quite sure what happened after his pants disappeared, and Cas never brought it up.

__

The third morning since the Zombie Incident, Dean was reading the paper with his coffee, rough and groggy after another bad night. The news was still reporting the mysterious deaths, mauled bodies mostly concentrated around the south. It took him at least five minutes of rereading the blurb and absorbing caffeine to make a tentative connection between the murders and the two zombie-creatures Bobby and Cas had killed earlier in the week. There were still no real leads, but he wasn’t particularly surprised—a taste for human innards was not on the usual M.O. list. Cas padded in and perched on a chair across from him, dressed but barefoot. He glanced at the newspaper, easily picking out what Dean was reading. “I think they’re originating in New Orleans.”

“What, the zombies?”

“Yes. I’ve been saving the articles and the highest concentration of murders is in Louisiana, the first just outside of New Orleans,” Cas answered, expression thoughtful. “I was thinking of going there.”

“Bobby doesn’t seem too keen on going after a bunch of brain munchers,” Dean replied evenly. He was pretty sure he knew where this conversation was going.

“No…” Cas hesitated before continuing, “I was going to go myself, but…I was hoping now that you would come with me.”

Dean sighed. Now that the choice was laid out, did he truly want back in the game, or was it just that he didn’t know what else to do? Either way, Dean decided, he was going to end up hunting again, even if it was just out of desperation.

“Dean?” Cas had been waiting patiently for an answer, but he had been silent for a long time.

“Yes, dammit. Yes, I’ll go with you.”

__

Bobby had misgiving written all over his face as he tossed the last bag into his van. The three men had decided to split up—Dean and Cas heading to Louisiana and Bobby going to look into some possible attacks in nearby states. Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder wishing the old man luck.

“Keep in touch, boy. I wanna know where you are and what you’re doing,” Bobby warned him. The ‘or else’ went unsaid, but understood. “If you get into trouble, get outta there if you can.”

“Dude, it’s zombies. Stop being such a buzz kill.” Dean grinned at him, hoping it would disguise how nervous he actually felt. If he couldn’t cut it anymore he would put them both in danger.

“Yeah, and we have no idea where they’re coming from.” Bobby slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door. He jabbed a finger in Dean’s direction before rolling up the window. “Call.”

Dean waved him off, watching until the van was out on the main road. “Right,” he muttered. “Let’s do this.”

Cas was already waiting in the Impala, their bags loaded into the backseat. Dean dropped in behind the wheel, glancing at his traveling companion before putting the car in gear. Cas smiled at him; happy to be on the road or happy to be with Dean, it wasn’t clear. He took a deep breath and switched on the radio.

“Johnny Cash,” Cas nodded toward the radio, sounding proud of himself for recognizing the singer right away. “Bobby lent me his record.”

“Yep, the Man in Black” Dean replied. He wondered if that was a good or a bad omen as they pulled away from the salvage yard.

__

They were somewhere in Missouri, of that much Dean was sure, but he couldn’t put a name to the town. As long as it had a cheap bed, he didn’t much care about the name. He and Cas had been on the road for almost nine hours and Dean didn’t remember driving long distances being quite so tiring pre-retirement. Now they were taking it easy in a cracked vinyl booth of a Denny’s, matching slices of soggy peach pie a la mode on the table. Cas had been strangely talkative during the trip, describing in great detail most of the hunts he had been on since Dean left, but now he was quiet again, looking vaguely sleepy as he poked at his dessert. The glum atmosphere was making Dean nervous.

“So you’ve never seen a zombie movie, huh?” He tucked into his pie, eating most of it in three bites.

The question seemed to perk up his companion a little. “No, I have not. I would like to see one.” He seemed about to add something else, but closed his mouth around the fork instead.

“Well,” Dean said around a mouthful, “There’s a Blockbuster down the street and I still have Sam’s laptop. We could watch some if you want.”

“Yes, let’s do that.” Cas smiled, pushing the plate away and reaching in his pocket. His hand came back with a fistful of bills, which he started organizing on the table. Dean raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He shouldn’t be surprised that Cas had money now (though Bobby had probably given it to him) since he had human needs, but the sight was still strange. Next Cas would be telling him he had learned how to drive. That’ll be the day, Dean thought to himself, amused.

They left the restaurant for the movie store, where Cas followed behind Dean like a puppy, peering over his shoulder as he picked out a couple of classics and a newer DVD. Their motel room was comfortable enough, with amenities like ‘shower’ and ‘air conditioning’ and ‘color TV’ listed in neon lights on the welcome sign outside. They both settled on one bed, since the laptop’s screen was small, propped on pillows against the headboard with a bag of chips and a bottle of whiskey Cas magically produced from his pack. “Zombies are so much funnier drunk,” Dean had told him before they started watching. Cas looked perplexed that the undead could be funny at all, but got the bottle out anyway.

Halfway through Evil Dead, Cas commented, “There seems to be quite a bit of contrary lore on how zombies are made.”

Dean shrugged, handing the now one-third empty bottle back to Cas. “That’s probably because there’s a lot of ways to make zombies. I think only about half of what’s out there is true, though.”

“Do you know which half?” Cas asked after a pause to catch up with the story.

“No.” He gave a snort. “Me and Sam ran into them sometimes, but not near enough to be experts.”

“Hmm.” Cas fell quiet again to watch the rest of the movie.

By Zombieland, Dean and Cas were both incredibly drunk, Dean perhaps a little more so. He was listing to the side, expounding on the comedic merits of Woody Harrelson and hogging the whiskey bottle. Somewhere in his hazy brain he noticed Cas was sitting a whole lot closer than he had been earlier and was that weird? Maybe not, they were pretty drunk, and human Cas had personal space issues almost as bad as when he’d been an angel. They were, however, making a habit of getting drunk in bed together. Okay, maybe things were a little weird, Dean decided. Particularly when Cas grabbed him by the shoulder and kissed him hard. Sluggish as his reaction times were, the first thing Dean registered was not shock but curiosity. That and the realization that Cas asking him if he’d ever seen a zombie movie had been a pick-up line after all. The shock didn’t kick in until he was being shoved back down, Cas clumsily moving to straddle his hips.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on a sec…” Dean protested belatedly. His head thumped back awkwardly against the headboard, Cas’s lips following his and muffling half his complaint.

After a moment Cas stopped kissing him, raising his head to look innocently into Dean’s eyes. “What?” he slurred, as if what was happening was perfectly normal. His hands roamed down Dean’s chest, popping the buttons on his shirt with more deftness than a drunk should possess.

“Uhh…what are you doing?” Dean asked dumbly, at a loss how to stop this gently, and not completely wanting to either. His mixed-up subconscious was not terribly concerned about professed sexual orientation.

Cas shrugged and touched the soft skin on Dean’s stomach, hands gliding along and eyes downcast to his task. “Are you okay with this?” he asked, though he didn't bother to wait before starting to undo Dean’s belt.

Dean stared, detaching temporarily from the physical sensation of his friend’s hands moving lower and the vibration of alcohol in his veins and the sound of the movie still playing toward the foot of the bed. Yeah, he was okay with this, because it was Cas, sincere and socially inept, and they’d always had a strange relationship anyway. Before Dean could answer verbally, Cas’s hand wrapped around his cock and he was jolted out of his private thoughts. “Oh, fuck.”

The sneaky bastard was smiling, he saw when Cas leaned back in, grazing his teeth along Dean’s neck. Where he had learned any of this was open to speculation; Dean wasn’t interested in asking right then. His hand gripped Cas’s arm, the one keeping a small amount of distance between them. The movie was distracting, making him nervous, and Dean struggled to turn it off. Cas was reluctant, but let him move enough to reach it. “Sorry, Woody is kind of a turn off,” he explained lamely.

Cas laughed at him softly, kissing his chin and sliding his hand over Dean’s erection. Dean caught the back of his head and pressed their mouths together. If they were going to try this, he might as well participate rather than lying there like a ragdoll. Cas seemed to appreciate the effort, and Dean fumbled with his pants. Cas rolled them both to side, pressed together, rocking his hips against Dean’s. The feeling was phenomenal, a welcome distraction from the past several months of Dean’s unhappy life. He moaned against Castiel’s mouth, feeling right on the edge. Cas’s hand started stroking them both together, and an unexpected twist had Dean getting off embarrassingly soon. Cas didn’t seem to mind, guiding Dean’s hand on his own cock until he was satisfied. They kissed tiredly, both still too drunk to bother dissecting what just happened.

__

New Orleans

John Hutchins was a transplant from Maryland. He never stopped looking the part, with his carefully combed chestnut hair, neat khaki pants, and tidy figure from an obsession with cycling. His free-spirited wife had followed the winds to New Orleans, sweeping him along with her. He was still there, but she wasn’t—dead in a freak accident. John could have moved back home, back to his sister and her lovely family of four. Lived a regular, quiet bachelor life. Maybe met a nice, conservative girl that would be there when he got home from work in the evenings. But John didn’t do that, he chose to teeter on the edge of the black abyss of the swamps, dabbling in voodoo from a book he found in his dead wife’s things. He knew she had been into that sort of thing, but he’d assumed it was a hobby, playing at witches with her girlfriends on the weekends. It hadn’t been, of course, and he was in deeper than she had only ever dreamed. John went to the voodooiennes, the witchdoctors, the ageless hags buried deep in the groves to learn the strangest secrets he could coax out of them. Finally, after years of failures, John hacked the code of half-truths and misdirection he had been slogging through, cutting right down to a purpose he suddenly saw with terrifying clarity. Reanimation—his ultimate dream and ultimate nightmare rolled into one deceptively simple spell. And he was close, so very close to perfection, but still missing the vital piece.

John switched off the TV, hearing enough about the attacks his experiments had caused to make his gut churn, acid burning his esophagus worse than the strong liquor he used to get to sleep at night. He picked up his shiny new gun from the table and tucked it into his pants. Time to find the missing piece.

__

Morning was awkward and it was mostly Dean’s fault. Cas tried to be friendly, but Dean was so out of sorts (not to mention hung over) that there was a mile of emotional distance between them. Cas was frowning at him, clearly concerned, but there was no way in hell or out that Dean was going to address the elephant in the room before a shower and coffee. Never was sounding like a decent option, too. He was surprised he remembered so clearly, but he also hadn’t had so much to drink that he blacked out. Sam’s laptop was on the floor; he picked it up and set it reverently on the table before claiming the shower first. Cas didn’t protest, going about his business packing.

By the time Dean reemerged, he had talked himself into pleading drunken horniness and asking Cas to forget everything. Self-consciously, he pulled his clothes on before opening the door, finding Cas sitting at the table with the newspaper, two coffees and a bag of some decent-smelling breakfast food. He looked up and Dean suddenly wished he were anywhere but in that room.

“Dean, we should talk.”

Dreaded words. “Uhh, I guess. Look, it’s not a big deal, okay?”

“I’m sorry—“ Cas started to reply, watching Dean walk over and sit at the table with him.

“Cas, we’re friends. There’s no reason we can’t keep it that way.” He reached into the bag. Friends with benefits, fuck buddies, whatever. That usually worked, right? “And I’m not some blushing virgin, dude. Though I thought that’s what you were up until last night,” he added around a mouthful of egg sandwich. Cas quirked an eyebrow at him across the table and refused the bait.

__


	2. Part 2

By the time they made it through Arkansas, Dean was relatively sure Cas was nearly bursting with wanting to talk, but the radio was up way too loud. On purpose, of course. Dean was most definitely not ready to talk about it, especially with more motel nights looming ahead. The road was pitch black, save for the fireflies and the incredible spray of stars across the sky. Occasionally, a truck would appear ahead, but it never stayed in sight for long. Dean had the high beams on, wary of deer and other critters that might decide to take a swan dive into the road. The Impala’s lights cut through the dark, reflecting off mile markers and raccoon eyes and a woman’s white shirt.

Wait, what? Focused on his own thoughts, Dean almost missed the figure walking ahead up the road. Cas tensed next to him, both of them noticing the rusty splotches on her back at the same time.

“Dean…”

“Yeah, I see her.” He slowed the car, drifting across to other lane since she was on the wrong side of the road.

“She looks injured. Maybe we should help her.”

“She also might be a zombie,” Dean muttered, pulling up behind her. The tires crunched along the gravelly shoulder, the sound and sudden illumination prompting the woman to stop. She also didn’t turn around to see her rescuers, and that made Dean nervous. He pulled a gun out of the glove box and opened the door slowly. “You cover me, okay? Just in case,” he breathed, handing the gun to Cas, who nodded.

Dean’s shoes hit the ground almost silently, a fact he would have smugly prided himself about after being out of practice for so long, but his heart was hammering too much to care at the moment. He heard Cas get out of the car a few steps behind him, but he seemed to be hanging back. Just as well, Dean thought. If this woman ended up not being a zombie, it would be best to keep the gun out of sight.

“Hey, are you okay? Do you need some help?” Dean asked, coming around into her line of vision and keeping his hands visible to appear unthreatening. Her eye flicked up, peering through long bangs, and Dean barely had time to throw an arm up when she lunged at him with her entire body. He went down with a yell, not expecting her to be strong enough to knock him off his feet. The bad thing about fresh zombies, Dean discovered, was that they still had all their teeth. He swore loudly as a full set clamped onto his exposed forearm, grinding into the muscle with hungry determination. The zombie was just starting to pull off a chunk of Dean’s arm, the skin tearing when she wouldn’t let go as he shoved her sideways. A pistol shot splattered blood and fleshy bits onto across his face, but those were minor details as long as the thing was dead.

“Dean! Are you alright?” Cas was next to him, helping push the body off of him, then wiping at his messy face without much success. “I think you have brain in your hair.”

“Gross.” Dean sat up, swatting Castiel’s hands away so he could get a good look at his arm in the light of the Impala’s headlights. The wound wasn’t large or deep, but it was jagged and painful where some dust and small bits of gravel had gotten trapped in the sticky blood. “Damn,” he muttered, “that bitch bit me good.”

Cas shifted to look at the bite, a little bit of panic flashing in his eyes. They both stared until Cas finally posed they question they were both wondering, “You don’t think…the stories could be true?”

Dean snorted, pressing a hand over the wound to try to stop the bleeding. “That’s just Hollywood, Cas. Don’t be paranoid.” But the truth was, he had no idea. After the Croatoan virus, Hollywood’s version didn’t seem entirely implausible anymore. They had to have gotten the idea somewhere. Cas didn’t look entirely convinced either. Dean hated himself for even thinking it, but he wished Cas still had his powers.

“We should bury her.”

Dean was privately inclined to leave her rot on the side of the road, but nodded in agreement. “Yeah, okay. Then we oughtta find a place to crash.”

Cas stood and helped Dean up after. Dean was concentrated momentarily on brushing the gravel from the ass of his pants when he heard another gunshot. Jerking his gaze back up, he found Castiel with the gun pointed at the zombie’s destroyed skull. “Cas…what the fuck? She’s already dead.”

“Double tap.” He grinned and put the gun in his waistband.

“You are not allowed to watch any more zombie movies.”

__

“How long do you think it would take if you were going to turn into one?” Cas was wrapping Dean’s bite wound, having cleaned and disinfected it as best he could once they had a room for the night. Both were quite dirty from digging a grave in the woods in the dark, but they decided wound care took priority over showers in this case.

“How should I know? We don’t even know if it’s true.” Dean frowned at his arm, the bravado from earlier starting to wear off.

Cas was looking at him intently when Dean finally met his gaze. The stare was more off-putting than usual, until Cas leaned forward and kissed him, grabbing around the back of his neck. “Don’t bite me, okay?” he breathed against Dean’s face.

Dean decided not to protest this time. After all, it might be his (…fifth?...sixth?...he’d stopped counting) last night alive and he might as well make the most of it. “Let’s get in the shower.”

__

Dean was not a zombie in the morning. Or, at least, he didn’t feel a strong desire to have raw meat for breakfast, so he figured that was a promising sign. Cas was still passed out next to him, the stress of the trip must have made him extra tired. Dean didn’t move yet, choosing instead to take a good look at his friend. And yes, he was damn well going to stick to that label until he sorted out what was going on between them. Cas was lying on his stomach with his face half buried in the pillows he was hogging. His bare back showed an anti-possession tattoo after the Winchester brothers’ idea, along with some sigils and wards Dean recognized and some he didn’t. There were about six of them along his shoulders, arranged about where his wings might have been, and Dean thought the whole effect was rather exotic and beautiful. He must have missed them the first time—they were probably too drunk to have bothered with shirts, but it was all very foggy. Clearly, Castiel wasn’t taking any chances after what they’d been through with the Apocalypse.

The Apocalypse. Dean still couldn’t believe he’d survived. Some days he sort of wished he hadn’t. Then maybe he’d be back in the Pit and could see Sam. He smiled to himself at how twisted he had become that he would rather be in Hell than in Heaven just on the off-chance he might get see his little brother.

Cas stirred, rolling over and pressing his fingers into both eyes before opening them. “Good morning, Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean answered softly. He hadn’t moved yet, and there was a tentative flutter in his stomach at waking up next to someone that wanted to say ‘good morning’ to him. “Should we go get some coffee and hit the road?”

“How is your arm?” Cas sat up, reaching over to fiddle with the bandage.

“Haven’t joined the ranks of the undead yet. So I guess good.”

Out of bed, Cas started pulling on his clothes while Dean watched the lean muscles bunch and stretch over his back and butt. Cas noticed, standing over him with a neutral expression. “What?”

Dean grinned and started hunting for his own clothing, leaning over the edge of the bed rather than brave the air-conditioning in his birthday suit. “Do you even realize how shameless you are sometimes?”

“No.” Cas picked up a bottle from the nightstand and swallowed the last few drops of whiskey from it.

“Figures.”

__

Cas had his nose practically pressed against the glass as they wandered along the narrow streets of New Orleans, Dean having decided they needed a little sightseeing since Cas had never been to the city. It had been years since Dean had been there as well, and he was enjoying the little side trip immensely, particularly watching Cas’s wonderment. They stopped for a real meal, almost orgasmic after the pathetic road food they had been subsisting on for the past two days. Dean knew they wouldn’t be able to afford to stay in the swanky tourist hotels, no matter how much he would have liked to spend a night with Cas in one of them, and they were currently sitting at a small French Quarter café table in the balmy outdoor air with Sam’s laptop, looking for motels that weren’t too far and nursing a couple of beers. Or, rather, Dean was looking for motels and Cas was people watching with unnatural intensity.

“Dude, remember you need to blink once in a while.”

Cas ignored him and instead said, “That man in the street is acting strangely.”

Dean looked up, spotting the guy Cas was tracking almost immediately. The man was dressed plainly in a t-shirt and jeans, though he was missing a shoe and seemed to be trying to walk through a locked door across the street. Several passers-by stopped to watch, one even looking for a moment as if they were about to offer help and thought better of it.

“The hell?” Dean muttered, closing the laptop and stuffing it back in its bag. He tossed a few dollars tip on the table and gestured for Cas to hurry up and follow. If the guy wasn’t a zombie or well on his way to being one, then Dean might as well retire for real. He shouldered the pack and discreetly patted the gun tucked into the front pocket to reassure himself that it was still within easy reach. Cas ambled a few steps behind, obviously trying to look casual. He must have picked that up from watching Sam, Dean realized, a lump threatening to form in his throat, but he had no time to mull it over. They reached the other side of mostly empty road, cautiously coming up behind the man as he continued to try moving through the door. The couple watching from the sidewalk made Dean uncomfortable, but there wasn’t much he could do without drawing more attention to them. They stopped on either side of the door, Dean with his hand on the concealed gun and Cas obviously tensing for a fight. The smell reached them before anything else, rank in the heat and humidity, and Dean wondered how the zombie had made it this far without someone spraying it down with a fire hose. They got a brief look at the face, which was ashen and missing half of the nose, but otherwise relatively intact. For the time being, fortunately, their presence seemed to go unnoticed.

“Shit,” Dean hissed across to Cas. “It had to be in the middle of the fucking city. This is going to be fun.”

“It seems fairly docile. Maybe we could drag it into the alley there.” Cas flicked his gaze two doors down and back at Dean. “It’s not far.”

Dean looked and took a deep breath, aware that the couple was still watching with more curiosity than was safe. “Yeah, okay, let’s try that. Ready? One…two…three.”

On three, they each grabbed the zombie under an arm, holding tight while it thrashed and moaned. Dean turned to the couple as he and Cas started dragging the zombie along and gave them what he hoped was an apologetic smile. “Our friend here is off his meds, you know how it is.”

They seemed satisfied, if somewhat alarmed, and left. Dean and Cas managed to wrestle the zombie into the alley, pinning it to the wall once they were out of sight behind a dumpster. The thing was groaning in rhythm, a wheezing sound that almost sounded like human speech minus the muscle control. Dean looked over at Cas and frowned. “Does that sound like ‘hush’ to you?”

Cas blinked and stared at the zombie’s flapping lips. “Or…’hutch,’” he said slowly. “Is it trying to communicate with us?”

“Hang on…” In the deep shade Dean could hardly make it out, but the half-eyebrow on the left side of the zombie’s face was a dead giveaway. “Holy Mother of God, I know who this is.”

Cas started and nearly lost his grip. “What? Who?”

“This guy helped me with a job six…seven years ago. Christ. Coven of witches, got his eyebrow blown off in an explosion. I had no idea he bit it. That might explain why he’s not trying to eat us.” Dean tapped forcefully on the zombie’s chest. “Hey, Doug! Doug, is that you in there?”

Dean waited, but the only response he got was a more forceful version of the same wheezing utterance, ‘hutch’. There was nothing for it, Doug was a zombie and they had to put him down. Whatever humanity he had left didn’t seem to extend past the courtesy of not biting them, but whether it was recognition or will power, Dean couldn’t be sure. “Cas…hold him still for a minute,” he asked calmly, letting go only when he was sure the other hunter had a decent hold. He pulled out the gun slowly, hoping Doug was too far gone to know what was happening. Dean took aim at the zombie’s skull, hand shaking slightly against his will, and Doug didn’t struggle or complain, seemingly resigned to his fate.

“Hutchins!” Dean blurted out suddenly, his brain erupting with memories of his job with Doug. Cas, startled, lets go of the zombie. For all their previous worries, Doug just stood there, swaying slightly. Cas eyed him, but refrained from shoving him back against the wall yet. “Hutchins was the name of one of the witches. I’m a fucking idiot, that’s exactly where we should start.”

Dean at that moment noticed that Doug was not restrained anymore, taking a wary step away from him and closer to Cas. “You’re not going to try to eat us are you?” Doug made a noncommittal noise in reply.

“Dean…what should we do with him?” Cas was clearly confused, and probably skittish after the incident the previous night. Dean couldn’t really blame him, but Doug might prove to be a useful tool for them. He dug out his phone and dialed Bobby.

“Hey,” he said when the old man answered, “I think I got a lead on the zombie problem. Remember Cindy Hutchins?”

“No, not really.” Bobby sounded rushed and irritated, but Dean didn’t have time to call back later.

“A while ago I did this job in New Orleans going after a coven of witches. There were three total, and they were into some real bad shit, good at it too. Hutchins was one of them. I…uh…sorta blew them up, or at least I thought I did. We just ran into an old buddy of mine, Doug Robbins, that helped on the case. I think he’s trying to tell us Hutchins is the one behind this.”

“You think he’s trying to tell you? He either told you or didn’t, boy. Which is it?” Suspicion crept into Bobby’s tone.

Dean eyed Doug, wincing ahead of time before he said what he was about to admit. “Doug is a zombie, so it’s kinda hard to tell.”

There was a long pause on the other end, during which time Bobby was probably considering that he had gone completely batshit. “HE’S A WHAT?”

“Calm down! He’s not trying to eat us…or at least not yet. I think…I think he recognizes me. He keeps saying ‘hutch’ over and over again somehow, I think he must be referring to Hutchins,” Dean explained quickly before Bobby could start the rant he was surely gearing up for. “Do you know any voodoo practitioners around here? Maybe we can get some answers if we take Doug to someone that knows their stuff.”

Bobby still sounded angry, but he grudgingly admitted that Dean had a point. “I got a scholar friend that’s a voodoo spiritualist at Tulane, name of Rose Beauvais. She’s Missouri’s cousin. I’ll tell her you’re comin’ and text the address. And Dean—don’t say anything you’ll regret later.” Bobby hung up without saying goodbye, leaving Dean looking offended at the phone.  
__

All attempts to explain the plan to Doug went in one ear and out the bullet hole in the side of his head. At least, that’s how it seemed, but neither of them actually knew how many neurons were firing in the creature’s brain. He doggedly followed them to the car and got into the back seat, dutifully trying to put on a seatbelt and getting hopelessly entangled instead. They left him that way, Dean feeling slightly guilty, but also hoping that it would be a deterrent in case he tried to turn on them. Bobby texted Dean’s phone to say that Rose Beauvais was working late and would meet them at her office where they were less likely to be seen on the empty campus than at her French Quarter apartment.

Dean’s headspace was well on its way to becoming one big clusterfuck as they started on their way. What ever happened to compartmentalizing? God, he needed a drink. That Hutchins woman must be alive, if Doug’s half-spoken wheeze were to be believed. Cas must have sensed his tension, and reached a hand over to rest on his arm, but Dean snapped at him before he could ask. “Dude, get off. We’re not alone.”

Cas looked about to say something and thought better of it, pulling his hand back, and Dean felt like a giant ass. But in all honesty, it felt too much like the opening scene of a gay porno called ‘Zombie Voyeur’ and Dean was so not ready for that kind of trick.

“So…uhh…” He coughed uncomfortably. “Cindy Hutchins. She and her friends were into some really dark shit. I was down here on a rougarou hunt, turned out they were the ones that Frankensteined that ugly beast in the first place. You ever see a rougarou up close?”

“No.”

“Ugly as sin. Anyway, I ganked that mother fucker and went after the witches before they got to me. Doug’s a local, he helped me figured out where they were holed up. Lit the match on the propane tank, too….” Dean trailed off. Cas made an indifferent ‘mm’ noise and looked out the window, obviously determined to give him the silent treatment. Well, shit. Dean decided to not elaborate that he had been violently ill for days afterward from the guilt. Bringing that up seemed like fishing for sympathy to get out of the doghouse.

__

“Dean Winchester?” Rose Beauvais had a light accent and was the exact opposite of her cousin Missouri. She was whip thin and all legs, with long smooth hair and skin like chocolate milk. In short, she was a total MILF and Dean had to mentally replace his eyeballs in his skull. She had an elegantly serious face and a straight posture even as she leaned against the mottled brick façade of the religious studies department.

“The one and only,” Dean replied. “And this is Cas.”

She gave them both a once over, spending a slightly longer searching Cas’s face than on Dean, eyes narrowing briefly. “Bobby Singer told me you were coming. I must say, this is a strange request. Where is the zombie?”

“His name is Doug,” Dean felt compelled to point out, feeling a little defensive of his friend, even if he was a member of the undead now. Rose did not seem interested. “Err…well…he can’t figure out how to get out of the car.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “That is what you get for dealing with zombies. I’ll go out to him.”

Dean trailed behind her purposeful steps and Cas behind him. Cas had hardly said two words to him during the drive over and he was fervently grateful that Cas missed his initial reaction to Rose.

The professor pulled open the back car door and leaned in, all business and no hesitation. They came to stand nearby, watching her stare at the zombie trapped in the back seat. For his part, Doug stopped struggling with the seatbelt and sat quietly swaying while she did her examination or whatever it was. Rose did not need long, and turned back to the hunters after only a brief minute. “You had better come upstairs,” she commanded, gesturing for them to follow. Dean quickly locked the Impala’s doors, hoping the dim lighting in the courtyard would be enough to hide Doug’s appearance to any casual passerby. Cas was already on the steps and Dean jogged after them, just barely catching the door. Rose’s office was on the first floor, and it was comfortably furnished with leather armchairs facing her dark wood desk. Books and gris-gris lined her shelves in a haphazard order that Dean had come to associate with academics over the years.

“Please, sit.” Rose pointed to the chairs while she herself took the one behind the desk. She snapped her shiny silver laptop closed and leaned on crossed arms. “Tell me, how do you know this man, Doug?”

“Err, well…” Dean weighed the potential benefits of telling her the truth versus the consequences of admitting to the murder of three women, witches or not. “We hunted a rougarou together a few years ago. He wasn’t a zombie then, obviously.”

“And?” Rose’s eyes were boring into his soul, and Dean shifted uneasily in his chair.

“And…we hunted some witches together after that….” he answered vaguely.

“The witches were killed,” Cas supplied helpfully. Dean glanced at him and found his friend to be blissfully unaware that Dean had done anything wrong. He was looking around at the shelves and walls of Rose’s office with great curiosity. Dean frowned and discreetly stepped on his foot.

“It was an accident. Doug lit a match near the propane tank of their cabin. He was trying to work some hoodoo for protection before we busted in there.” Dean smiled tightly and Rose said ‘uh huh’ like she didn’t believe him at all. And she was right to be suspicious—Doug hated witches even more than Dean. Fortunately, Cas seemed to take the hint and refrained from offering any more ‘helpful’ comments.

Rose leaned back and pinched the bridge of her nose, then reached for a pair of wire frame glasses. “And now Doug is a zombie that can talk. What is the name that you think the zombie said?”

“Hutchins,” Dean answered. “It’s the married name of one of the witches from before. Cindy Hutchins. But I’m pretty darn sure she died in the fire.”

“The name is familiar to me, yes.” Rose looked thoughtful, then she continued. “There was a man that came here about four years ago, John Hutchins. He wanted to know a way to bring his dead wife back. I told him I would not help.”

“That’s her husband, I remember talking to him when we were investigating the rougarou case. He seemed like a pretty average guy to me.”

“He was knowledgeable, but he didn’t know enough. There are few that would know what is required for such a thing, and fewer still that would be willing to go down that road. I would be surprised if Hutchins was behind these zombies, but I suppose it is possible if he were able to coerce the right person.”

Dean leaned back in his chair and rubbed his jaw. Rose was right, Mr. Hutchins seemed the least likely candidate, but they would need to check it out anyway to see if the guy knew anything at all. “Yeah, ok. So what do you think about Doug? “

“He is not the usual kind of zombie,” she answered bluntly. “The most common way to make a zombie is with a nerve poison, but then the body is not truly dead. Another way is by voluntary bargaining of the soul. This method is also performed on a living person.”

“Right, but Doug was already dead. He’s got a bullet in his head,” Dean interrupted.

Rose held up a hand to stop him. “I noticed. There is a third way to create a zombie. There are two parts to the human soul—the greater and lesser. The greater soul departs at death, but the lesser soul can be manipulated by the spirits into thinking the body is not dead. It is possible that Doug retains his lesser soul, and that’s why he recognizes you, Dean. He may even be partially aware of what is happening to him.”

Dean felt the cold creep up his hands, despite the thick heat of the Louisiana summer. Somewhere in his subconscious he already guessed what must be motivating Doug, but to hear it confirmed by a bona fide expert made him feel slightly sick. And now Hutchins had a motive, even if it seemed pretty far-fetched that Joe Normal was digging up graves and murdering his neighbors to build a zombie army. Doug was a piece of the puzzle, Dean was sure, but he didn’t know where his friend fit yet.

“You won’t turn into a zombie, then. That’s good,” Cas finally broke his long silence. “We ran into one on the side of the road last night and she bit Dean,” he confided to Rose, who merely gave him an incredulously stare.

One less thing to worry about in this shitstorm, Dean thought, relieved. “Er…bad horror movies. You know,” he said with an apologetic shrug. Luckily they’d gotten plenty of information from her before totally outing their collective ignorance on the subject. Dean coughed lightly. “Anyway, thanks, Rose. You’ve been a huge help.”

“Good luck. Something very sinister is going on, and it needs to be stopped. Voodoo should not be used in this way,” she replied, rising with them to show them out. At the door she shook both their hands. “If something goes wrong, come back here. I can perform uncrossing for you.”

Dean and Cas got back into the car, both moving slowly while they deliberated on what they just heard. “I think we better go see Hutchins.”

“Yes…” Cas looked thoughtful, taking a discreet glance back at Doug in the rear view mirror. “Dean, if Doug does have part of his soul, he is in a very bad state. Human souls are not designed to inhabit dead flesh.”

Cas was the only person Dean knew that had true insider knowledge on the physiology of human souls. His chest clenched as he turned to look at Doug sitting calmly in the back seat. “Are you serious? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Completely serious. And it means we need to put him out of his misery as soon as possible,” Cas answered quietly.

Dean was silent for too long, he knew, but he was at a loss for how to proceed. Cas’s and Rose’s words rattled around in his head, he couldn’t quite process the implications. “Not yet,” he finally answered, slowly. “We might need him.” More like he couldn’t bring himself to shoot a friend in the head.

__

John Hutchins knew exactly who ‘Detective Angus Young’ was and what he was after. Before, he couldn’t make the connection to his wife’s bizarre death, but now it was painfully clear. Young had had a different hunting partner then, and John had already dealt with him, shot him on sight when he turned up again several months ago. John had learned about hunters from some acquaintances he made in his voodoo travels and disapproved of the very idea of them. He should have realized something was wrong when the two men came snooping around his home, pretending to be cops and asking about his wife’s whereabouts while she was on a cabin retreat with her friends. Some voodoo thing, he hadn’t asked, not knowing that there were people in the world that wanted to hunt women like her. He also hadn’t known how deep in she was, but he still would have pulled a gun on Young the moment he had his back turned if it hadn’t been for the other man with the peculiar eyes that never seemed to blink.

“So you’re positive that all three died in that blast?” The hunter was asking with mild disbelief. Bastard, he couldn’t even remember the names of the women he killed.

“Yes, I am. Now, what is the about? That was a long time ago, the police told me it was a faulty propane tank.” The image of his wife, badly burned on one side of her body, her ribcage crushed, flashed across his vision. It almost put John into a white-hot rage, but he controlled himself. Blind rage wouldn’t get him what he wanted. Young was getting uncomfortable, but the blue-eyed man seemed unruffled. He’d have to watch out for that one.

“Well, Mr. Hutchins, we have reason to believe your wife and her friends may have been victims of...arson.” He twitched, and John had to restrain a smile.

“I see. Please have a seat, I need to turn the stove off. You caught me at a busy time.” John glanced back to be sure they did as requested, grimly pleased to see they had complied, if reluctantly. If he was quick, he should be able to pull off what he had in mind. John Hutchins was no weakling, but there were two of them, so he had to be careful. Inside the kitchen, he veered off and rushed into the basement. The latest experiments groaned pathetically from their restraints. He was glad he hadn’t had time to try the ritual them, as they would be such a suitable revenge on Young for what he’d done. John grabbed the baseball bat he used to protect himself from unruly zombies and dashed back up the stairs as quietly as he could, creeping back through the kitchen and up behind where the two men were whispering to each other. The placement of the couch was fortuitous, and he silently thanked his dead wife for insisting they needed to see out the window. The blue-eyed man noticed him out of the corner of his eye, but before he had time to react John swung the bat at his head before bringing it around toward Young. Thank God his neighbors were out of town.

__

Dean was awakened by someone jiggling his foot and repeating his name urgently. His head was tilted back against rough bark and there were approximately sixteen bird feeders above his head. Okay, so it was probably just one bird feeder, but after the knock he’d taken Dean was almost positive he had a concussion. He was an idiot for letting Hutchins get the jump on them, but he hadn’t figured that guy would catch on so fast.

“Dean? Dean, are you alright?”

He swiveled his head sideways, but had to close his eyes against the spinning. When he opened them again Cas was watching him worriedly, leaning sideways as much as he could against the ropes holding them against the large tree they were seated under. At least they were tied up together, Dean thought hazily. Small miracles. “Uhh…yeah…I guess. Can’t see too well yet. Are you okay?”

“More or less,” Cas answered. “But we’re about to be in serious trouble.”

For the first time since waking Dean noticed their surroundings. The lawn under them was neatly trimmed and there was a patio attached to the house and a relatively new looking privacy fence. A pitiful garden surrounded the patio and two zombies were wandering through it. A third was trapped on the porch, bumping up repeatedly against the railing. There was no sign of Hutchins. “Son of a bitch. I guess it was Hutchins all along. You think he figured out it was me that killed his wife?”

“I would say that is very likely.” Cas was wiggling around, Dean could feel the ropes tightening and loosening with him. “We need to get away before those zombies notice us.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean muttered, blinking a few times to try and get his vision to steady. It worked a little bit, but he was still seeing double. How were they going to get out of this mess without ending up zombie fodder? “Hey, can you move your hands?”

Cas shifted and was silent in concentration for a moment. “Yes, a little bit.”

“Okay, do you think you can reach my pants if we moved away a little?”

Trust Cas to completely misinterpret everything. “Dean, I don’t think now is a good time….”

“…I appreciate that your brain actually goes there now, but that’s so not the point.” Dean started shifting himself away from Cas to where he thought maybe they would line up hip to hand. One of the zombies seemed to have taken a few steps toward them. It was hesitating, but looked like it might be about to come over. “I think my pocketknife is still in my pocket.”

“Oh.” Cas didn’t sound embarrassed in the least. After a few tries, he managed to get his hand on Dean’s hip, fingers creeping along until he found the opening of the pocket. Under different circumstances Dean might have found this weird little bit of kink a turn-on, but two of the three zombies were now definitely moving towards them. Their only consolation was that it appeared zombies moved slowly unless provoked, so they still had a minute or two to spare in the big yard.

Cas’s fingers found their way into his pocket, extracting the knife at an angle awkward enough they were lucky he didn’t drop it immediately from the strain. “I got it.”

Getting it unfolded would be even harder and Dean was running over the rest of the plan as quickly as his rattled brain would allow. They had no regular weapons except the pocketknife. Hutchins was probably armed and they had no idea where he was. The three zombies between them and the gate were really the least of their problems. Cas’s fingers, smaller than Dean’s, had less trouble getting the knife open than he feared, and he started sawing at the first rope he could reach, but there wasn’t enough time. “Cas, hurry the hell up! They’re going to be chewing on us in about fifteen seconds.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Cas replied through clenched teeth.

Suddenly, the rope on Dean’s right wrist loosened and he was able to pull it free. “Gimme the knife.” He grabbed it from Cas’s hand and went to work on the rest of the bindings, getting his body free just in time to kick the legs out from under the first zombie. It fell face first at Cas’s feet, writhing uselessly as it tried to figure out how to get back up. Once they were both free, Cas jumped up and hauled Dean to his feet, pushing him toward the gate and tripping the second zombie.

The entire world tilted sideways, and Dean almost toppled over. Cas’s hand at his elbow kept him upright. They were on the other side of the gate and moving toward the front lawn when Hutchins reappeared, pointing a gun steady and straight at Dean’s face. They stopped dead, Dean’s hands raising slightly in surrender. “Let’s not do anything rash, Hutchins. Killing me ain’t gonna bring your wife back.”

Hutchins shrugged, but kept the gun trained on Dean. “No, that’s true. I’m still working on that part.”

Dean blinked, the last piece falling into place. The zombies were all Hutchins experimenting with reanimation for the purpose of bringing back his dead wife. Poor Doug had been one of those experiments; he must have been investigating the case even before Dean and Cas decided to drive down and was recognized by Hutchins. “Aww, that is sick, man.”

“No, you’re the one that’s sick, ‘detective.’ Your friend already got what he deserved. You goddamn hunters think you know what’s right and wrong in the world, killing innocent women for their faith. You know nothing about the world. Did you kill a man for that badge, too?”

Dean’s anger flared up, despite the gun in his face and Cas’s warning nudge. “Save it for someone who gives a shit,” he sneered. Hutchins pressed the gun right up to his forehead, and Dean thought this is it, finally. But something strange happened—there was a rustling in the bushes, then Hutchins yelled out. The gun hand went slack and dropped the weapon, which Cas immediately lunged for. Hutchins was still yelling, clawing at the head that was now latched on to his neck. There was a wet tearing sound and blood spurted from a fresh gash in Hutchins’s neck, splashing Dean across the face before Cas put a hole in the man’s head. Doug, apparently, had finally gotten free of the seatbelt.

“Holy shit,” Dean commented after taking a moment to process that he was still alive.

__

As it turned out, Cas did know how to drive. When Dean asked him why he’d never said anything before as they rode to the hospital, he replied, “I didn’t want to take that away from you.”

Dean was touched, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud. Instead, he smirked and made some crack about Cas’s slow driving, though he knew Cas was merely trying not to jostle Dean’s head too much. They arrived at the ER and had to make up some story about getting lost and motorcycle accidents and bloody noses to explain their startling appearances, which the doctors clearly didn’t buy, but released Dean quicker than expected anyway. He did have a concussion, but they didn’t think it was serious and sent him away with an order to rest. Cas got off easy with just a nasty lump on the back of his head and a killer headache.

They finally reached a motel at seven AM, thoroughly exhausted, and begged their way into a room, despite the surly clerk that kept insisting check-in wasn’t until two in the afternoon. He probably thought they were psychos with all the blood and head bandages. Cas forced Dean into bed immediately upon receiving the key, himself pausing only long enough to knock back a few pills and a shot of whiskey before leaving again to take care of the mess they left behind at the Hutchins house.

Dean lay in bed, fidgeting. He tried to watch TV, but remembered the doctor said not to and he couldn’t concentrate on following the news anyway. Cas driving the Impala made him more nervous than Sam driving it, but that wasn’t what was keeping him awake. He couldn’t get it out of his head what Hutchins had accomplished with Doug. If Rose was right about the soul, that was big. That was really big. Going the voodoo route had never much appealed to Dean as a solution with his strong mistrust of most things supernatural, yet desperation was known in the past to compromise his moral boundaries, especially when it came to Sam. Doug must have been somewhere before Hutchins dragged him back, either Heaven or Hell. It was obviously imperfect—Hutchins had died brutally before he could finish—but the possibility was there. Sam’s body was gone, that was a problem he’d have to solve, but maybe…maybe there were options. The uncertainty was like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Dean tossed and turned, eventually falling into a half-sleep until Cas returned. He dreamed of Sam, or something that gave the impression of Sam, pieced together from scavenged parts. He was smiling, but it looked lopsided because he had two different cheeks. Dean woke twisted up in the top sheet when he felt a weight dip the edge of the mattress.

“Wake up,” Cas’s voice told him softly. There was a hand stroking his forehead, and his friend’s face swam into view. How many times had he woken up this way since meeting Cas? Dean had lost count, but he was grateful for all of them.

“Hey, what happened to Doug?” Dean asked him hoarsely. He probably already knew the answer.

Cas sighed and leaned back against the headboard. “I shot him. He seemed okay with it, though.”

“That’s good, I guess.” Dean turned over and placed a hand on Cas’s thigh, just above the knee. He admitted to himself that they could have a real relationship, but he knew he wasn’t ready for it. Too many things were wrong. He hoped Cas understood that, because he choked on the words when he tried to get them out.

“Dean, I know what you’re thinking, about Sam,” Cas started, swallowing hard like he was trying not to choke, too. “Believe me, I thought about it too after we talked to Rose. But it’s the wrong way.”

“Yeah, yeah….” Of course he knew that, deep down, but he had been ignoring the truth. Cas tethered him, just like he was pulling him out of Hell again. Thoughts like he’d been having led in only one direction, and that was down.

“We’ll find another way.”

“I think we need to try. I can’t live with myself much longer otherwise,” Dean told him. He had tried to live without Sam and Cas and Bobby, but that had been a big fat failure, as much as he loved Lisa and Ben. Sure, he was a mess, and Cas was just as bad, but they were probably better off together where they could keep an eye on each other.

Cas’s hand crept around to Dean’s neck, stroking his thumb along the line of his throat. “I know,” he replied, soothing. “We’ll find a way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgments: Many, many thanks to my lovely betas, thinlizzy2 and glovered, for all their grammar triage and story advice. I'm extremely grateful (and squeeful!) to my artist, xsilverdreamsx, for creating such awesome pieces for this fic on such short notice. Special thanks and sadfaces to wordplay__, for she was also making amazing art for this story before her computer kicked the bucket. And to jaimeykay for commiserating and a Very Inspired suggestion, more thanks. Also, this story would have been very different if theerokappa had not insisted it be about voodoo and zombies.


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